Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 488

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 488

The car is warm.

Too warm, maybe. Or maybe that’s just me—the champagne still doing its slow work through my bloodstream, turning everything soft at the edges. Kyle’s coat is still wrapped around my shoulders, the collar brushing against my jaw every time I breathe. I should give it back. He must be cold. Just that grey t-shirt between his skin and the October night.

I don’t move to take it off.

The city slides past the windows. Buildings and streetlights and the occasional late- night pedestrian, all of it blurring together into streaks of light and shadow. We’ve been driving for maybe five minutes. Maybe ten. Time has gone strange again, the way it does when you’re tired and drunk and sitting too close to someone who used to be your husband.

Kyle’s hand moves on the dashboard.

I watch it happen in slow motion-his fingers reaching for the stereo, the soft click of a button, and then-

Music.

Not the classical he was playing before. Not Debussy or Satie or any of those

melancholy piano pieces that sound like rain on windows. This is different. This is—

Jazz.

A saxophone, low and lazy. A bass line that moves like honey. Drums that brush rather than beat. The kind of music that belongs in smoky bars at 2 AM, in old black- and-white films, in places where people drink whiskey neat and call each other “darling.”

I turn my head.

Kyle is looking at the road. Both hands on the wheel now-ten and two, proper driver’s position. His jaw is doing that thing, that tight-muscle thing, but his mouth has relaxed into something that’s almost a smile. The streetlights slide across his face in intervals. Shadow. Gold. Shadow. Gold.

“What is this?”

My voice comes out strange. Raspy. The champagne and the cigarettes and all the talking by the river have done something to my throat.

“Music.”

“I know it’s music. I mean—” I gesture at the stereo. The movement makes his coat shift on my shoulders, releasing another wave of that smell. Cedar. Sandalwood. Smoke. “—since when do you listen to jazz?”

“Since always.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s partially true.”

“Which part?”

Kyle’s hand leaves the wheel. Reaches for the volume dial. Turns it up just slightly- just enough that the saxophone becomes something you feel as much as hear, the notes vibrating through the leather seats, through the floorboards, through the bones of my feet.

“I don’t listen to it often,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t like it.”

I stare at him.

The jazz keeps playing. That slow, seductive rhythm that makes everything feel like

a dance. The singer comes in now-a woman’s voice, deep and rich, singing something about midnight and rain and waiting for someone who might never come.

“You don’t listen to jazz.”

“I’m listening to it right now.”

“Kyle_”

“What?”

“You-” I’m searching for words. The champagne isn’t helping. Neither is the music, which is doing something to the air in the car, making it thicker, warmer, harder to breathe. “-you don’t fit jazz. You’re-you’re classical. You’re Bach and

Beethoven and-and things with

structure. Things with rules.”

His mouth curves. That almost-smile again.

“Is that what you think?”

“That’s what I know.”

“Based on what?”

“Based on “gesture at all of him. His profile in the streetlight. The sharp line of his jaw. The perfect posture even now, even through empty streets at one morning. “—based on you. Based on

driving net

everything about you. Youre not a jazz person. You’re a-a spreadsheet person. A board meeting person. A person who schedules bathroom breaks.”

“I’ve never scheduled a bathroom break.”

“You would if you could.”

“That’s—” He pauses. The muscle in his jaw twitches once. “—that’s not entirely inaccurate.”

“See?”

“But Mia.” His voice has changed. Gone lower. More intimate. The words slipping into the space between us like the saxophone notes, smooth and dark. “Just because I don’t do something often doesn’t mean I don’t know how to do it.” Something flutters in my stomach. Low. Dangerous.

I look away. Focus on the window. On the city passing by. On anything except the way his voice sounded when he said that, the implication buried in the words like a knife hidden in silk.

“The car doesn’t fit either,” I say. Trying to redirect. Trying to find safer ground. “This car. Jazz doesn’t belong in a car like this.”

“What kind of car does jazz belong in?”

“Something older. Something with character. A vintage Cadillac. A beat-up

Volkswagen. Something that’s been places and seen things.”

“This car has been places.”

“Board meetings don’t count.”

He laughs.

Actually laughs.

The sound is unexpected. Bright in the dark car. It changes his whole face-the tight

jaw loosening, the lines around his eyes crinkling, something young and almost

boyish flickering across his features before it’s gone.

I’ve always loved his laugh. That’s the terrible truth I try not to think about. Through all of it-the

marriage and the divorce and then et

him

four years of silence-I’ve never stopped loving the sound of laughing. The way it seems to

surprise him as much as anyone else. Like joy is something he keeps forgetting he’s capable of.

“You’re harder on me when you’re drunk,” he observes.

“I’m honest when I’m drunk.”

“Same thing.”

“No.” I turn back to look at him. The music has shifted a different song now, slower, something that sounds like longing rendered in minor keys. “Honesty and harshness aren’t the same thing. I can be honest and kind. I’m choosing to be honest and harsh.”

“Why?”

“Because—” I stop. Swallow. My throat is dry again. “—because you’re easier to handle when I’m harsh. When I’m kind, you—”

“I what?”

“You look at me.”